I spent this past week at our home in East Wenatchee–yes, it’s still OUR home (sell, baby, sell!) though we’re now living in southern Oregon. I was there to check on the house, do some packing and take care of end-of-the-season chores in the yard. This year’s annual putting-the-garden-to-bed flurry of activity was also my farewell to the spot of land I have stewarded over half-a-dozen years.

For me, saying goodbye to my garden is as difficult as parting with the house that has been our dream home, refuge and shelter the last six-plus years. I’d rather do yard work than house work any day, and working outside is my own personal form of therapy. My daughters half jokingly claim that I love my plants more than I love them, and I half jokingly reply that they could be right: the plants don’t talk back nor give me sleepless nights.

I relish the early spring days when the warming sun draws me out to sweep aside last year’s leaves to uncover tulip and daffodil shoots pushing up through still-frosty ground or tiny swirls of bright green foliage emerging around the rotten stems of died-back perennials. April and May bring some new vision of rebirth every day: the weeping cherry suddenly in full bloom, peonies unfurling their lush petals like a debutante swirling her full-skirted ball gown, chives and baby lettuce offering to refresh my winter-weary palate. Summer brings with it the embarrassment of riches from the vegetable garden and roses and rudbekias and bees drowsing over catmint. In September and October, the reds of dogwood, maple and burning bush and the yellows of larch, aspen and cherry make up for fewer hours of sunlight. But there is something especially appealing to me in these early November days when all the burst and blossom of the growing season give way to the hush and rest of winter.

Wednesday was bright but cold, and I raked the leaves from flower borders to lawn for sweeping up with the mower, saving bags of leaves for compost that (hopefully) some other gardener will be spreading on the beds next year. The lawn got a final, very short cut, contributing the green counterpoint to the compost bin. There is something very satisfying in looking out over that flat, neat expanse of leaf-free grass.

The next day was dreary, foggy and wet, but I couldn’t avoid hours of cutting back rose canes and frost-blackened perennials and pulling up rotting annuals and tomato plants. As I worked my way around the property, I recalled when I had planted this shrub or cleared that spot for herbs, and noted how tall those little trees we added had grown in just a few years. At the end of the day, I surveyed my domain of neatly trimmed beds, soil heaped over rose crowns and tender root systems, satisfied that I had tucked up my “babies” and protected them as best I could for the coming snow and wind and cold.

As hard as it always is to leave a place behind that I have tended and fussed over, I know that I have left a bit of myself here for others coming after me to enjoy. Should I come back this way years from now, I will be able to measure how much more those trees have grown and how those roses still bloom and the clematis climbs by the door.

It is enough.

Patty Vanikiotis, proofreader

About 10 years ago, I had the chance to visit the Great Wall of China. Now, most people go during the spring or early summer when the weather is nice and the crowds are abundant. I, however, am not “most people.” I chose to go in the dead of winter.

I have been to many frosty places during the winter months, such as Russia, Scotland and Japan, but have never been quite as cold as I was standing on The Wall. Granted, I am from Southern California, where 50 degrees is a cold snap, but this was beyond artic. Luckily, I had chosen to take the cable car to the wall rather than climb from the bottom, because I’m sure hypothermia and frostbite would have set in early.

My sister, who had never been outside the US, was with me because I’d decided it would be fun to watch  a green traveler in a culture so harsh and different from ours. I was right about that, but it ended up being a lifesaver having another warm body. Despite two pairs of long johns, wool pants, ski outerwear, gloves and boots, we were still freezing. My little ski cap was in fact much like wearing a paper hat, for all the warmth it was providing, so before making the trek up the piece of wall we were dropped off at, we noticed a few Mongolian men selling fur hats. Being the conscientious person that I am, I asked what they were made of, and to my horror, they eeked out the word ”cat”. I happen to be quite the cat lover, so I indignantly refused. That is until I walked about 50 yards on. Teetering on an impending sub-zero demise, my sister reminded me that the cat was already dead and I should take advantage of its sacrifice. Growing up I rarely agreed with my sister, but at that very moment she seemed to have the wisdom of Confucius, so I ended up bringing new meaning to the Dr. Suess story of The Cat in the Hat.

All the icy weather and bone-chilling cold aside, it was one of the most magnificent sights to behold. I have been to many world wonders, and each one was awe-inspiring, but there was something unique about the wall. Perhaps it was the sheer size of the structure or the history that went along with it, but whatever it was, when we stepped foot on it for the first time the cold seemed to dissipate. It was as if it had a life of its own; or perhaps when one is standing in the presence of such an astounding human feat, it takes your breath away enough that you forget about your extremities turning blue. Whatever the case may be, it was indescribable.

-Morissa Pawl, vice president western region

In this week’s eFlyer, I wrote about US News & World Report’s “airport misery” index. Based solely on delays and high passenger loads–which themselves contribute to delays, as anyone who has stood in an airplane aisle waiting for people to find a place to put their carry-on knows–they ranked Chicago O’Hare (ORD) “most miserable.”

I was in a mood to agree, having spent way too much time at O’Hare myself recently. At the same time, I know that it’s one of the great airports, ranked by GT readers as Best in North America. I have to say that United’s Red Carpet Club certainly helped smooth out my delay experience–I got work done, and then joined some friendly fellow passengers to Tampa at the bar.

And I have to say the delays weren’t all Chicago’s fault. Initially flights were backed up from a snowfall earlier in the day, but when that traffic cleared, the next delay was due to a ground hold for stormy weather in Tampa.

I have no one to blame but myself for choosing to transit O’Hare in midwinter. Weather happens. Unless you live there, the rest of us choose O’Hare as a connecting point because it’s such a massive hub and we can get just about any connection we need there; and sometimes, as in my case, we choose it because the fares are better than those for some of our other options.

I must admit that as I was in my sixth hour of waiting around, I started thinking that I had been penny-wise and pound-foolish for not spending the extra $500 to fly out of the South. That moment passed, though. Misery is in the eye of the beholder, and I’d rather be stuck at an airport that has a lot of flight options, plenty of bars and clubs and dining and shopping, than at an airport that is “less miserable” by virtue of having not so many flights and not so many passengers–and therefore fewer amenities to amuse them.

If you get stuck at Chicago and you can’t take it anymore, there’s even a hotel, the O’Hare Hilton, right in the terminal that has day rates. On my outbound flight, I’d booked myself a long connecting time to allow for weather, and had booked myself into the Hilton for the day. When I had to change my flight and wasn’t going to get a chance to use the Hilton, I called at the last minute and they didn’t even charge me for the cancellation. So I’ve stopped my grumbling; over all, O’Hare treated me well.

–Mary Hunt, editor, eFlyer

This morning, as I stepped outside, the sun was shining brightly and it felt like a pretty nice day. I got in my car and turned on the radio. That’s when I heard it was 6 degrees outside. Have I become that desensitized to Chicago’s weather that 6 degrees seems like a nice day?

This winter, the weather has been so bad, that 6 degrees on a windless, sunny day, is in fact, a nice day. At least there is no snow falling, sleet sheeting or wind howling.

There are some people who take pride in enduring this harsh weather, usually referring to it as “Bear Weather” during football season. Call it “Midwestern Tough”,”old school”,”gritty”…..I call it insane.

I have lived here all my life, enduring the ridiculous temperatures (like -83 wind chills) and the enormous snows (3 feet or more). As a kid, snow and really bad weather translated into no school, so I didn’t care back then. As a working adult, there are so many factors which come into play.

I can’t tell my clients that it is too cold to distribute their publications, so out I go into the cold. As I trek across the frozen tundra, I encounter so many salt-induced potholes, I feel like I am in a video game scoring points with each swerved, near miss. Downtown Chicago presents another danger, ice falling from buildings. I am not the most agile guy and even less so when I am carrying a 20 pound bundle of magazines. At least I have avoided any major ice chunks crashing onto my head.

The next news report on the radio snapped me back into reality. More bad weather is coming tonight and lingering through next week. Snow. Sleet. Sub zero temps. The winter trifecta!

As I made my way through the rest of the day, I enjoyed this warm front, all 6 degrees of it. I even rolled down the window for that late afternoon breeze. Heck, it is downright balmy!

-John Wroblewski, distribution specialist